


Trigger Break

by Ford_Ye_Fiji



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Addressing finch's aversion to firearms, Angst, Character Study, Gen, Guns, I Don't Even Know, I wrote this when it was really late, It was 11 o clock, Lots of thinking about guns, Mentions of John Reese - Freeform, Mentions of Nathan Ingram - Freeform, Riveting content I know, Think Piece, i was having an existential crisis, mentions of Alisha Corwin, mentions of Grace Hendricks - Freeform, spoilers up to season four, way too much character study
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-05
Updated: 2017-08-05
Packaged: 2018-12-11 11:27:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 785
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11713458
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ford_Ye_Fiji/pseuds/Ford_Ye_Fiji
Summary: The point at which the trigger allows the hammer to fall, or releases the striker, so that the shot fires. The ideal trigger break is sudden and definite.





	Trigger Break

**Author's Note:**

> EDIT: what whAT WHAT okay so I hadn't seen season five when I wrote this and I CAN TELL THE FUTURE GUYS
> 
> also I added the quote from season five because why not

Harold Finch did not like guns.

Finch knew it was a bit of an irrational fear. A gun was just an object, a tool, and a rather efficient one at that. It's purpose was for the same unpleasant one as that of a sword, a bomb, or Samaritan. It was designed to kill. Oh, guns were useful, no doubt about that. Mr. Reese's many examples of kneecapped men, now unable to shoot them, was proof enough.

But, he still couldn't help it. He supposed it might be a bit foolish of him to refuse to defend himself or his dearest friends, but he couldn't bring himself to take another's life. They were a living breathing person. A sacred sentient creature, capable of free will and rational thought. Who was he to have the right to take that away? Who was he to be judge, jury, and executioner? By no means did Harold Finch want to be the one to play God. He'd already seen what that could do to a person.

His fear of guns, was perhaps less that of the cold hardened lump of metal, but more about what it represented. The might of human ingenuity working at its best to create a weapon utterly and exceptionally perfected to take that brilliant ingenuity away from others.

Guns were a useful tool. He commended Mr. Reese for using the weapon for good, but he himself felt no need to take up a firearm. He simply could not justify it to himself why it was reasonable for him to take another's life. That's why he did not use guns. Or knives. Or any sort of lethal weapon.

Finch knew without any sort of doubt that he could not live with himself if he actually looked a man in the eye and pulled the trigger. He knew he wouldn't be able to live with himself if he was to actually stare into the glassy eyes of his victim, dead- void of all life- to see the red bloodied bullet hole splattered with tissue, and know that he was the one directly responsible for their demise.

That was what Harold told himself, and that was right, but it wasn't the only reason. Another reason lurked in the dark recesses of his brain, trapped in the back of his mind.

Finch knew the depths of depravity he could sink down into. He knew he was capable of a cold freezing fury that could somehow burn hotter than the molten innards of the sun. He knew that if something truly terrible were to happen, he would snap like a taut bow string. The ferry bombing had been the readying of the bow, the pulling back of the tenuous string, an almost invisible line that _should not_ be crossed. Harold knew that if he so wished, if he crossed that line, if his morality suddenly became relative, he could bring down his enemies with one fell blow. He could topple entire empires, he could tear down gods.

Oh, Finch was very aware of what he could do, and he was completely and utterly terrified.

That was why he would not dare to pick up a gun.

Harold Finch did not trust himself.

He did not trust himself to stop once he started. It seemed such an easy path to take. Kill a person in their way here, another there... How long could he justify that to himself? How long could he lie? He knew it would be too late by the time he realized what he'd become. He'd almost blown up an innocent woman just a few years ago, because he believed that she was responsible for the death of one of his best friends.

_"There's one more thing. I'd like you to avoid violence if at all possible. But..._

_if they harm Grace in any way..._

_Kill them all."_

_"You know what your problem is, Harold?"_

_"No, tell me."_

_"Underneath all that intellect, you're the darkest of all of us. It's always the quiet ones we need to be afraid of. And I just hope I'm not around the day that pot finally boils over."_

He knew that if someone pushed hard enough, if someone hurt him or his friends long enough, he knew that he would kill them, and that he would not regret it.

That type of calm certainty, the analytical factualness, was frightening. To think that he would be so calm and without remorse about callously taking another person's altogether precious life... It scared him almost out of his wits.

So in truth, Harold Finch was scared all of the time, but not of the Machine, not of Samaritan, not of guns.

He was scared of himself.


End file.
